


Only.

by patchesc137



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elves, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Mirkwood, Only a Little Off Canon, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Thranduil is Soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 13:37:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20725064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchesc137/pseuds/patchesc137
Summary: It takes a long time to love again after losing someone you held dear. No one knows this better than Thranduil.





	Only.

**Author's Note:**

> this was a request on patchesc-137 on tumblr .
> 
> i got so carried away .

It’s widely thought that you are to have one great love in your lifetime; one person that knows your soul better than anyone else. Some find this early on. Some take time. And some lose this love far sooner than anyone could ever imagine, or predict. But this, my friends, isn’t always true. It is possible that you can lose someone important to you, and though you hurt and ache for them to return to you, you can find someone that could help mend that ache, once you are willing to open yourself up to love again. This is what happened to the King of the Woodland Realm.

We all know that he lost his wife long ago. And Thranduil was bitter. So bitter, that he was closed off to most things. Likely his kin would find him in his throne room, eyes on the wall in front of him, unblinking against the memories that clouded both his vision and his judgement. A King, heartbroken. She was his One, he was sure of it. There was no one as brave, as kind, as generous. No one has beautiful. 

And then, you came along.

You were not a replacement. You were not there to fill the hole in his heart. You were simply with the company, travelling to rescue Erebor, when you were captured by the elves there. Thorin first, the rest of the dwarves to follow, until all of you were taken into the dungeon to wait for a solution. Much to many of their dismay, you fell faint in your unit, the company calling for the guards to help you.

“It’s a trick,” said one to the other. You could barely hear, as if you were listening from a tunnel.

“Help her!” it’s Bilbo who calls out, trying to get a good look at you through the bars of his own personal prison. “Help her, now!”

They take you away, to their medical wing, with healers looking over you, putting together several different concoctions, as they were unsure of which would work on this mysterious illness. In the end, they realize you’ve been poisoned along the journey, the effects worsening as you travelled, and you’re taken care of fairly well (it seems some elves can put their differences aside, unlike their King). You awake hours later in an exquisitely furnished room. You notice immediately that your friends are not around. However, in the corner of the dimly lit space, you can see a tall being with cascading white hair.

“You’ve finally awakened,”

It’s strange, to see him for the first time. If you weren’t aware of what he’s done- or rather, hasn’t done- for the kingdom of Erebor, you’d pick out his smooth skin, his polished exterior, his slick locks and shining jewels and silver. His robes, that slide along the around as he moves slowly toward you where you lay on the bed, icy eyes glistening beautifully, despite the lack of light. But you couldn’t look past the cold heart you knew was inside of his chest. How could he simply look on while people died? You give him no reverence. Your chilly stare matches his own.

“I have. And I must admit, _your highness_\- you are not the first thing I wanted to see when I did,” Your voice is filled with disdain. “Where are my friends?”

You think you catch a hint of surprise in his eyes, but the King covers it well. His hands remain behind his back as he stands at the side of your bed, staring down at you as if you meant nothing. “I assume you’re feeling better, since you can speak,” his tone is the same as yours- level, and as if there’s a bad taste in his mouth. “Though it may be beneficial for you not to,”

For your first meeting, it was not ideal. He tries to get answers out of you that you would not give him. What was even worse, was that you were not well enough to leave until he discovered that the dwarves had already fled- down the river, in barrels. Bilbo had left a speedily written apology letter, assuring you that they would find you again, give you your share, as soon as they succeeded. Despite your sorrow and sourness, you understood, and could not be mad at them. Thranduil is livid, finding his prisoners gone. And perhaps more so, that they had left the weakling there. You conveyed rather clearly that you wanted to be there just as much as he wanted you to be. 

“I’ll be gone as soon as I’m well enough to be,” you practically spat, finally able to sit up in the bed that suddenly seemed cold and unwelcoming. Still, there was barely any emotion in the King’s eyes as you addressed him aggressively.

Days go by, and something changes. It takes time- a lot of time. Maids check on you more and more, the visits growing consistent, as if someone was telling them to do so. In 3 weeks, you’re able to leave the bed, and as long as there’s a guard on either side of you, you’re told you can explore the kingdom. It’s never far. You find yourself in the main library more often than not, or in the beautiful gardens, sat with a freshly bound leather journal on your lap. You write unsent letters every day to your friends, letting them know you’re alright, and that you hope they have succeeded. You don’t know Thranduil has been watching you until much later.

The news of the war startles you. Thinking of Thorin, his nephews, Bilbo… will they all fight? Of course they will. And once again, Thranduil decides to do nothing? The guards cannot stop you from storming into the king’s throne rooms, running toward him with a loud and clear, “Coward!”

Head turns slowly toward you, pulling himself out of his normal and melancholic thoughts. He hadn’t expected this. One hand is held up, but it is not to stop you. The guards halt immediately, feet together, chins high, obeying their leader without question.

“You sit here while the dwarves ready for battle!” you scream, involuntary tears swelling in your eyes. You aren’t afraid of the King. You’re angry at him, and the fact that _you_ could not be there beside your friends to fight. “You don’t even consider helping! Coward!”

Fists hit at his chest. They, of course, have no severe impact, and Thranduil, for a moment, does not even react. He watches you with a slightly furrowed brow, allowing you to relieve your fears and your sorrows. He thinks, for a flash of a moment, that you’re right. And not only that, but a fraction of his heart contracts in a way it has not in some time. You are brave. You are kind. You are generous. With tears streaming down your face, you’re almost beautiful.

Thranduil only reaches out when he sees you grow weak, the illness still feeding on bits and pieces of your system. Catching you and following you to the ground, you both find yourself on your knees. It takes effort, but you look up at Thranduil, staring into each other’s eyes for a few long moments before you can breathe or talk again.

“Please,” you beg, grabbing a handful of his robes. “They’re… they’re my friends,” you sniff, blinking away tears as you plead him with your eyes “They… they deserve to live. They deserve to win this war, Thranduil,”

It’s the first time you’ve used his name, without any hatred, or distaste. Nothing but sadness, begging him to save the company of misfit dwarves you now would call your family.

He searches that stare, and only when he finds what he’s looking for does he demand the guards take you away. You kick and scream, calling him names all the way out into the corridor and back to your rooms, but he’s starting to plan. Risking his people for this, it is not something he should do. He was asked once before, and couldn’t, but your words ring in his head. Is he a coward? Or was he a heartbroken fool who could not bare to lose anyone else?

Memories flood his vision, not just old, but now new- you sitting in the library, engrossed in a tale as he leaned around the corner to stare at you. Watching you laugh by the fountain as evey elf you came in contact with seemed to enjoy your company. A beautiful smile, glistening eyes, pushing through a sickness with hope and joy. He comes to a sudden realization, and this is the final determining factor that sets the King into motion. _He would fight._

The Battle of the Five Armies ends in bloodshed, but a victory for the dwarves. The news of the deaths of The King and Princes stabs at your heart, but you are proud to hear that the others, that your friends, have succeeded in regaining Erebor, and defeating the Orcs. The night after you screamed for Thranduil to take action is when you heard of the Elves movement- an army to join an epic fight. You found yourself waiting at the gates, watching battered men and women return, bodies carried back on cots. You find yourself searching for his face in each one, but Thranduil rides high on his elk, covered in the dirt and blood of a war. Finding yourself tearing up, he spots you almost immediately, dismounting his mighty steed in favor of standing before you.

“I’m sure you’ve heard that it’s over,” he says stoically, staring down at you over a head held high. “Some of the dwarves were not spared, but they-”

He’s cut off by your next action. Mid torso high, you wrap your arms gratefully around him, head leant against his chest, eyes closed and watering. “I believe I was wrong about you, Thranduil,” you murmured softly, taking a deep breath, taking in his scent- smoke of battle, copper of blood. He’s surprised, almost leaning away before he remembers what you had previously convinced him of. None of the other elves would look over as the King slowly brought his own arms around you, holding you close as you cried for loss and victory. This was the start of something far deeper than taking care of a sick ward.

You’re feeling better. The poison is all but gone, and there is an option for you to leave. You’re offered an escort to Erebor, to Dale, to help rebuild and see those that have survived. Bilbo is still there, you’re assured. You could see him before he headed back to the Shire. Instead, you write new letters to each of your friends, and have them sent out. You stay in Mirkwood.

Despite his surprise, Thranduil would eventually admit that he was glad you did. The season changes rapidly, and day in and day out, once your image of him has changed, the two of you grow closer. He knows that the hole left by the death of his wife will never be thoroughly filled, but he finds himself happy, at least, with your hands in his, sitting side by side in the garden you loved so much, flowers blooming with the promise of Spring.

“You’ve returned sooner than I thought,” he mentions, looking regal in the rays of sun that shone down on you both.

You give a soft smile. “I told them I would visit again in a few months time,” the Dwarven Kingdom was starting to thrive once more. “Dain is a dutiful and fair king. And Bilbo sent word back. I am to come and see the Shire in late summer,”

Thranduil would hum, watching you with a fondness you would not have believed he could possess several months ago.

“And do you miss your home?”

He asks this often. You finally got the King to admit that he was afraid he was keeping you there, as if you were a prisoner. Several times, you have assured him that wasn’t the case, and you sigh now, placing a hand on his cheek.

**“I’m right where I belong,”**

The smile is small, and soft, and one you have grown to admire. In the privacy of your own world, the fountain gurgling and rushing in the background, the smell of pollen surrounding you, Thranduil leans down to press his forehead against yours. It’s the scene of a work of art, and both of your hearts swell. **“I am never letting you go,”******


End file.
